Embracing My Edgelord Era
Notes from a reluctant edgelord
Hey everyone,
QQ: who’s crazier—me, or Hasan Piker? Sure, Hasan has a bigger platform, but is that because he’s a giant nepo baby, or because I’ve been holding myself back from fully embracing my own inner edgelord?
I’ve never considered myself an edgelord. In fact, I had to Google the term because I didn’t even know what it meant, let alone identify with it. But after someone accused me of being one for inserting my gigantic Semitic nose into an internet discussion about the NYC mayoral race, I couldn’t help but wonder: was I actually an edgelord—or just on the edge of something bigger than myself?
As someone both accredited and woefully unpopular, it’s put me in a unique position to throw things at the wall and see what sticks—while disappointing everyone in the process. So far, I’ve learned that successful engagement online seems to hinge on two things: posting photos of myself, and commenting on anything related to Jews and Israel. Not exactly the personal brand I set out to build, so I’m just as surprised as you.
Honestly, I think this has less to do with me and more to do with the culture we live in. One obsessed with categorizing, flattening, and labeling people into identifiable buckets until they become palatable or disposable. I’ve felt this across every dimension of identity, from my ethnicity and gender to my sexuality. The algorithm just helps me find the words and audience to reduce myself with frightening efficiency. Maybe that’s why I hate it so much.
According to Oxford, an edgelord is “a person who affects a provocative or extreme persona, especially online (typically used of a man).” Apparently, this is how some people see me now. And there’s something perversely satisfying about that because I never would’ve given myself that label. I don’t consider myself extreme, even if I know I often provoke. But I’m a product of a generation raised by trolls so I guess it makes sense.
When I challenge people to drop their assumptions and see where they’ve been played, they hate it. They hate that I have layers, fluid opinions, and contradictions. They hate being forced to look in the mirror and recognize the rage bait they swallow daily. And I hate that the algorithm rewards me for pointing this out.
Is the algorithm holding a knife to my throat, forcing me to post something provocative? Of course not. But it’s definitely pushing me off the ledge, just to see what will get more clicks. This is the binary: viral or invisible. Right or wrong. Ally or enemy.
“Explain to me like I’m 5-years-old: why can’t people just Google something or go to the public library or engage in a real discussion rooted in mutual respect and good faith rather than post a template rhetorical question dripping in assumptions?”
I get that anything I say will be filtered through people’s pre-existing ideas about me—my background, my face, my last name, the city I’m in, the things I’ve said or haven’t said, whether they believe I belong. Even if, deep down, I’m not sure where I belong either.
I don’t have one fixed home, one fixed identity, one fixed way of being in the world. I think that’s what unsettles some people the most—they can’t quite put their finger on why they don’t like me. Maybe that’s why I’ve tried to separate myself from the group, so no one else feels compromised by the ways I’m hated. It’s what makes me wary of labels, especially the kind liberals toss around when they’re projecting their own middle-class guilt. It’s a different kind of resentment that isn’t just unproductive and unhelpful, it’s hypocritical and actively harmful.
According to strangers online, I am: a gentrifier. A colonizer. A racist. A sexist. A bootlicker. A tool of the oppressor. A symbol of everything wrong with the world. I am also, somehow, stupid, fat, ugly, and unworthy of love. What I am not, apparently, is someone who’s survived housing insecurity twice. Or a survivor of abuse. Or a humanitarian. Or a loyal friend. Or someone who believes deeply in equity, empathy, and nuance. Someone who shows up.
It’s always either/or, never in-between. Saint or sinner. Woke or canceled. On the right side of history or the wrong one—but always in the way. People would rather respect a cartoon villain than a real human being who thinks for herself because free thinkers remind them that fixed ideas are shackles and certainty is often just fear in disguise.
I’ve tried—really tried—to see the good in people. To stay open, to assume most people mean well, even if they miss the mark. But that’s also the kind of thinking that got Anne Frank killed. So where does that leave us? Trying to be hopeful gets people killed. But so does giving up. It’s hard walking that fine line between skeptic and cynic; idealist and delusional.
From actual conversations, not posts or hot takes, I know most people don’t want to live this way. They’re tired, on edge, lonely and recognize the ways they’ve sacrificed meaningful action to convenience. They want to connect. To stop flattening each other into enemies. But they’re also terrified and addicted to their own narratives, unsure how to return to something softer.
Still, I see it happening: people are weaning off screens and picking up books again. Making the call instead of just sending the text. Carving out time for a long walk or a long talk. Making space for disagreement that doesn’t end in exile. They want the cappuccino after the movie—the conversation, not just the content. The moment to sit down and say, “Wait, what did you think?”
I realized that yeah, I could be a really good edgelord if I wanted to. I’ve spent a lifetime being underestimated, infantilized, reduced to a girl when I’m a grown-ass woman. I know how to provoke and how to play the game. I could serve it right back to people who dish it but can’t take it. But I don’t want to.
I want to be known for pulling people back from the edge and blurring lines. For building bridges without selling out and helping people be better without making it a performance. I want to make room for nuance, mess, humanity. To be healers, not dealers. Inclusive because we’ve been excluded. Brave enough to embrace the small moves that make a big impact. Practicing the radical art of forgiveness not for absolution, but for evolution.
I don’t want to win the internet, I want to win people back to themselves. Turns out, the most subversive thing you can be online is sincere.
Yes to all this. It’s a reason I’ve removed myself from the big platforms for the moment; I read only here. I’m tired of being reduced and reducing myself to make sense online — in person is where it’s at for me now. Thank you for these thoughts, brilliant as usual.